I
‘O lady, rock never your young son young
One hour longer for me;
For I have a sweetheart in Gareloch Wells
I love thrice better than thee.
II
‘The very sole o’ that lady’s foot,
Than thy face is mair white.’—
‘But nevertheless now, Young Hunting,
Ye’ll bide in my bower this night?’
III
She has birl’d[235] in him Young Hunting
The good ale and the wine,
Till he was as fou drunken
As any wild-wood swine.
IV
[She has kiss’d him by] the candle-light
And the charcoal burning red,
And up she has ta’en Young Hunting,
And she’s had him to her bed.
V
And she’s minded her on a little pen-knife
That hang’d below her gare[236],
And she has gi’en Young Hunting
A deep wound and a sair.